


Jüngling Sherlock

by HollyShadow88



Series: Grimmed Up Sherlock [1]
Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Arranged Marriage, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jungfrau Maleen, M/M, Marriage, POV Alternating, Romance, WIP, but john has his damsel moments too, john tests out his deduction skills, sherlock is a slight damsel in distress, slight crossover with Book of a Thousand Days, they just have to work on the whole 'getting together' thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyShadow88/pseuds/HollyShadow88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first in what will probably be a group of Sherlock/fairy tale crossovers.  A retelling of Jungfrau Maleen and a very slight crossover with Shannon Hale's Book of a Thousand Days.  When Prince John proposes, Prince Sherlock is more than willing to accept, but his father disagrees.  Sherlock is locked away in a tower for seven years in punishment, and when he escapes, he finds John has been forced into a betrothal with Jim Moriarty.  Along with his servant Greg, they attempt to get rid of the man so that he and John can have their happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Chances are pretty strong that not many people know Jungfrau Maleen - hell, the only reason I know it is because of Book of a Thousand Days and my almost ten years of studying German. If you aren't familiar with the story, I highly encourage reading it, either before or after reading this, because it is utterly fabulous. It's one of the various tales collected by the brothers Grimm and is fascinating in one of those 'wait, the parent did WHAT NOW' kind of ways. But I've been contemplating starting a series of Grimm/Sherlock crossovers and where better to start than one of the ones that is lesser known? So here, have my attempt at Grimming up Sherlock.

The first time they met, the incident was far from spectacular. Sherlock, the precocious six-year-old that he was, spent much of the visit pestering his brother and ignoring the curious stares of the then nine-year-old John. The one time they were forced to interact, Sherlock tested the tolerance level of John’s normally patient dog, uncovered Harriet’s secret stash of liquors hidden in the nursery wall, and managed to make the nursemaid cry - twice. Needless to say it was a fair amount of time before the two families willingly interacted face-to-face once more.

The second time, though far less stressful for everyone overall, was no more significant. This time John’s family came to Sherlock’s, their fathers crafting plans for a possible treaty while the other members of the family attempted not to cause a minor war amongst themselves. Mycroft may have been the same age as Harriet, and therefore an ideal candidate for a possible marriage had they not both been the heirs to their individual thrones, but their personalities clashed as horridly as oil and water forced to mix. The pair spent most of their time sending the other icy glares over the top of their younger siblings’ heads. Sherlock occupied much of his time with books, his raven curls poking over the edges of the binding as he blatantly ignored John’s various attempts at conversation. John had grown into a determined teenager, however, and never failed to engage the younger boy in a rather one sided discussion. At the time, Sherlock was twelve, and John fifteen.

It was not until their third encounter, on the occasion of Sherlock’s eighteenth birthday, that the situation grew interesting. Though the idea of a ball sounded dull beyond comprehension to the young prince, Sherlock’s father insisted, inviting anyone nearby to attend the festivities. As he rested his angular chin in the hand propped by the arm of his chair, Sherlock’s previously bored eyes lit upon a short yet sturdy gentleman. He stood surrounded by other young men and women, obviously listening with little interest to the discussion while refraining to comment himself. When called upon, he would provide a small smile or nod, quickly covering his indifference in a gulp of his drink before he once more lost the thread of the conversation. Abruptly his head rose, navy eyes meeting Sherlock’s own, and a genuine grin broke across his bright face. Sherlock soon lit upon him and snatched him away, keeping John’s attention for the rest of the evening.

Once John returned home, they continued their friendship through exchanged letters. Sherlock astounded John with his various analyses of those around him and John intrigued Sherlock with his extraordinary normalcy and temperance. Hardly a year into their correspondence, John sent word of his intention to ask for Sherlock’s hand. Surprising to none more than himself, Sherlock found himself eager to accept. Sherlock’s father, however, found the situation less than ideal.

Thus begins the tale of Prince John and his own Jüngling Sherlock.


	2. Chapter One - Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less than pleased with Sherlock's choice in a marriage partner, his father gives him a choice - marry the king's provided option or be forced into a seven year seclusion. Sherlock may be many things, but disloyal to his John is not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, first official chapter! Sorry this has taken so long - I actually wrote this and the prologue at the same time, but haven't had the chance to edit until now due to health and family issues. Just a few quick notes before we're on to the actual story, I promise! First off, Sherlock's father in this is a different representation than in the actual series; Mr. Holmes is far too sweet and precious and basically completely adorable to be the asshat that the king is, so I decided to make him a completely different individual. I considered making Mycroft into the father figure, but that made me sad. I adore Mycroft, particularly Mark's version, and I have other plans for him in the future of this story. The chapters will rotate between being from Sherlock's third person point of view to John's, meaning that while this is what is happening to Sherlock, the next chapter will be what is happening to John not long after. I'm not planning on wasting a lot of time on Sherlock and Greg in the tower - honestly, who wants to read about two blokes sitting around twiddling their thumbs for seven years? - so the beginning of this will probably seem to move fairly quickly. At the moment, I have no idea how quickly I'll be getting chapters out (see: health issues) or how many chapters this will be, but I've started work on John's chapter already. Ideally I'll get that bad boy out in a week or so. Okay, enough my rambling, on with the show.

“Absolutely, **completely** not!”

Sherlock’s arms crossed tightly over his chest as he rolled his eyes. “I fail to see what you suspect you can do to prevent it, Father. As the second son, it is my duty to marry in a way that will be beneficial towards the kingdom. John’s country is successful, wealthy, and on particularly friendly terms with our own, and the man himself has proven himself both brave and compassionate multiple times over. I am of an age to choose a spouse and have done so accordingly, as well as finding one that pleases me. What possible qualms could you hold against this seemingly ideal situation?”

The king fumed from his throne, dark eyes narrowed in irritation down at his younger son. “What you **fail** to consider, young man, is my consent!” the man roared, clenched fists pounding into the chair’s arms. “What good could it do you to wed the second child of a neighbouring kingdom when you could come to rule your own? I will not have the hard work I have put into grooming you as a future king to be wasted on something as foolish as sentiment!” 

“I have no intention of ruling anything,” Sherlock snapped back. “You’ve a more than capable king in Mycroft, and I’ve more meaningful tasks to set myself to than the ruling of idiots. I’m hardly the sort of man to care for presiding over the masses.”

Taking a deep breath that shuddered through the length of his body, the king pushed himself to his feet to stand rigidly before his son. “You are to be engaged to Princess Sally of the far southern kingdom, Sherlock, and that is the last of it. It is time for you to stop behaving like the ridiculous child that you are and to take up the responsibilities of one of your station. I have allowed you to do as you wish for far too long – it ends now. Prince John shall remain no more than an ally, until the day comes when his use falls short.”

The king made to brush past Sherlock, considering the issue resolved, when the prince’s deep voice caused him to screech to a halt. He spoke only one word, but the severity laced in his tone conveyed much more.

“No.”

Silence fell in looming whirls over the room as the king turned slowly back to Sherlock. “Excuse me?”

Straightening himself to his full and fairly impressive height, Sherlock kept his face neutral as he faced his father. “No, I will not marry Princess Sally. I have made my decision, and my choice is John. I shall wed him or none.”

Blind fury radiated from the king toward Sherlock, but the prince remained stoically determined. Slowly the man stepped forward, halting only when Sherlock’s body physically forced it of him. “Is this your final word?” he seethed, voice treacherously soft.

The only sign of Sherlock’s possible discomfort came from the faint motion of him swallowing. “It is.”

Without warning, the king snatched Sherlock by the arm and dragged him from the room. “Very well; if you insist upon being obstinate, I will treat you accordingly. Perhaps a few years spent locked away on your own can convince you to see the matter with the proper clarity.”

~~~

“Oh Sherlock, why must you always be so bloody difficult?” Mycroft ran a hand through his short hair, the motion illustrating his brother’s worry more than words ever could. Not much could ruffle the crown prince’s normally indifferent persona, but apparently the possibility of his only brother being forced into confinement was one of them.

“I am merely attempting to be with the man I love and you consider me the difficult one?” Sherlock scowled back as he attempted to formulate an appropriate escape. At the moment he considered thirteen possible options, only five of which actually involved something illegal. Given his circumstances, he hardly cared. “What kind of man locks his child into a tower for seven years purely because he wishes to marry someone he doesn’t approve of? And to think that everyone considers you the smart one – “

“I am,” Mycroft instantly replied with a light sniff. “And I happen to agree with you completely, but there were far more intelligent options for going about this than flat out refusing him! Dear lord, Sherlock, have you absolutely no sense of self preservation whatsoever?”

Sherlock only had time to roll his eyes before they were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Catching a glance of the familiar silvery hair of his servant, Sherlock felt an unexpected dip of terror grip at his insides. Surely they couldn’t have finished constructing the tower already?

“Your Highness?” Greg inquired, worried gaze roving over Sherlock’s stiff frame. “We’ve been called for. It’s time.”

Gulping down his fear, Sherlock said, “Impossible. It’s hardly been a day, Lestrade, not even my father could have something such as this built so quickly.”

Greg shook his head slowly, mouth set in a grim line. “They’ve converted one of the old watchtowers, down beyond the river just outside the city’s walls. The king seems pretty determined to nip this in the bud right off.”

He turned to Mycroft, whose blue eyes stared across at him with a mixture of pity and concern only detectable to his brother. “There’s absolutely nothing you can do?”

Mycroft sighed and glanced at the ceiling. “Not without making it worse or getting myself locked away with you. I’m concerned about you, brother dear, but I fear that we would destroy ourselves in no time should we be trapped together like a pair of caught rats. Besides, there’s hardly any way for me to get you out of the situation if I’m just as stranded as you are.”

Sherlock snorted his agreement and squared his shoulders, composing himself with a few swift blinks and a determined set to his jaw. “Very well. Lead on, Lestrade.”

He glided from the room before his brother could speak again, his servant bustling to keep up. Sherlock sensed that the man was on the verge of speech, outcries of sympathy and pleas that he simply do as his father bid certainly on his lips. He cut the man off before he’d gained the courage to follow through. “I appreciate your concern, Lestrade, but I assure you that any possible attempts to sway me otherwise will do little good. I intend to follow through on my word, regardless of the consequences.”

“I understand,” came Greg’s instant reply, causing Sherlock to halt in the middle of the nearly empty corridor. His eyes narrowed as he took in his servant and his words came tumbling out before he could stop them.

“You’ve officially broken things off with your wife, which was a wise move considering that she had no plans to halt the various affairs she’s been holding for several years. You’re despondent, but that’s not the only reason why. Concerns over your position now that I’ll no longer require your services? Unlikely – you’ve been with the family for many years, proven yourself loyal and hardworking, and my father would be a fool not to utilize you. Worries about myself? Doubtful, seeing as I have done nothing over our time together to result in your having any friendly affection towards me – “

“Sherlock…”

The prince held up a hand to hush the man. “What is it, then? You’re still in the uniform required of a servant of the prince, but only acknowledged me when you entered my chambers, meaning that you have not been passed on to Mycroft. **Oh.** ” His silvery blue eyes scanned Greg’s face carefully, his words coming out hardly audible and incredulous. “No, Lestrade. I cannot allow you to have the same fate as me. I refuse to bring anyone against their will into my own personal hell.” 

“I offered my services, Your Highness,” Greg interrupted, bringing Sherlock’s deductions to a halt. The prince stared blankly at him as he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. “It didn’t seem right, you going off alone for seven years, and as you were so kind to point out, it isn’t as though I have anything to keep me here. So I volunteered to go with you, so you won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

Blinking slowly, Sherlock gradually nodded. “I…thank you, Lestrade. That’s very noble of you.”

Greg snorted and shot his master a tiny grin. “Hardly – I’m just tagging along so you don’t drive yourself mad without someone to insult while you’re stuck in there. You need someone to keep you right until you figure your way out of this and back to your lad.”

Despite himself, Sherlock felt a small smile of his own quirk the edges of his lips. “Well, come along then, Lestrade. Let us face the gallows as determined men.” With that, he strode forward, leading them silently to their fate.


	3. Chapter Two - News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hears about Sherlock's fate...and decides to do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, I had zero intention of this chapter turning out quite this fluffy when I first set out to write it. The fluff is strong here, but it's balanced out with its fair bit of inevitable angst. Kudos must be given to my amazing friend Ashlee, who I sent this chapter out to right after I finished the first draft so she could check my writing as John. I am much, MUCH more like Sherlock in general, and I've noticed while writing stories from this show that I have no trouble writing as the consulting detective while John always gives me grief. Ashlee is my John savior, and I tend to send these out to her as my personal John to make sure everything is up to par. The next chapter is already coming along nicely (like I said, writing as Sherlock for me is significantly easier), so I hope to have that along to you soon!

John sat peacefully at his writing desk, fingers toying with the quill in his hand as he gazed out the window to his right. Normally finding the right words when crafting his next letter to Sherlock was as thoughtless as breathing – the man was endlessly fascinating, quite possibly the most brilliant individual John had ever met – but after his last note, he found himself floundering slightly. The mixture of confidence and terror, a combination bizarre until one considered just exactly whom John was proposing to, had resulted in him needing to rewrite the bloody thing four times at least before his hands remained steady enough for him to sign off with the finally penned farewell of, “Love, your John.” He’d been nearly certain when he sent it off that his feelings were reciprocated, but Sherlock was an impossible man to read at the best of times, leaving John with a looming sense that he was making a complete arse out of himself as well as ruining the best friendship he’d ever had. His instincts, as usual, guided him right, however, and the answer he’d received more than proved that the chance was one that he should have taken years before.

John’s interest in Sherlock was one that sprouted from the very moment they first met. Even at six, the younger prince had been brilliant, his clever deductions concerning those around him spewing forth without a thought as well as resulting in an expectant look of impending praise that never came, at least not from the king. It was obvious to John that the little boy spoke so from the need to impress, hoping to gain at least a touch of the attention and focus more predominantly put on Mycroft as the oldest. Rather than giving him the effect he expected, however, his words usually led to a harsh scolding, either from the nursemaid or the king. Only when John was about did his observations receive the admiration they deserved.

Unfortunately for John, Sherlock failed to notice the attentions lavished on him by the other prince until they were both much older. Regardless, all had turned out for the right eventually, leaving a daydreaming John to smile softly to himself as his pen scrawled mindlessly at the edge of his parchment. Naturally Prince Sherlock would be the only man capable of converting John into little more than a love struck schoolgirl. The man was a warrior, one of the most respected captains in his father’s army and respected for his skill regardless of his station, yet he fairly turned to speechless awe in the shadow of his now betrothed’s presence. At least now he felt confident that his feelings were perfectly returned.

His musings were abruptly halted by a soft knock at the study’s door. John spun in his seat, a grin breaking across his face at the sight of his servant. Gradually, one corner of his lips fell almost imperceptivity as he took in Mike’s grim expression. The man’s normal, naturally bright face had been turned uncertain as he stood in the doorway, his eyes slightly downcast as they refused to meet the prince’s. John rose to his feet, striding over until he stood face to face with the other.

“Mike?” he queried, ducking his head slightly to look closer into the servant’s face. “What is it?”

Raising a large hand to rub at the back of his neck, Mike shifted his weight from one foot to another. His lips twisted slightly as he sought words for whatever he wished to share, and John instantly felt his attention focus completely on his body language, his stance straightening in preparation for whatever knowledge Mike came to give. “We’ve received news, Your Highness,” Mike finally said, blue eyes rising to focus on John’s own. “It’s…well, it’s not the best.”

John felt his heart begin to race, his thoughts frenzied despite his calm outward appearance. “Which is it, then, the war or Harry? I’ve told Father I am ready to join him at his word. Mike?” His brows furrowed as he studied the man while he quickly shook his head.

“No, Your Highness, not the king. Or Princess Harriet.” Taking a soft breath, Mike cringed and studied the prince’s face before plowing on. “It’s Prince Sherlock.”

John’s mouth fell into a stern line, his jaw clenching a bit as he fought off his raging panic. Without a word, he spun and left the room, racing through the familiar corridors without heeding the calls of Mike behind him. He focused fully on finding his sister, using his single-mindedness to tamper down his rising fury.

Bursting into her chambers, John’s head whipped about in search of the familiar flaming red hair. Harry let out a startling yelp at the sudden sound, turning a scowling expression on her younger brother from her seat at her desk. Her eyes sparked into a flash of concern at the expression on John’s face, leading her to slowly stand and reach out for him.

“What have you done?” John demanded, his voice a masquerade of cool control as his fists clenched at his sides.

“John, it isn’t like that,” she rushed to explain, hands attempting to clasp his shoulders. He shoved her off, gritting his eyes shut at the motion. “A letter – “

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” the prince yelled, eyes still clasped almost painfully closed. He felt his arms begin to shake as he did his best to remain in control.

“If you won’t even bloody give me the chance to explain, then read it for yourself!” Harry roared back, thrusting a single unassuming piece of parchment in John’s direction. He hardly caught it before she turned to pace before the great set of windows behind her, running a hand agitatedly through her curling strands. John’s eyes narrowed at his sister before darting down to read the quickly penned lines.

_Prince John –_  
 _It is my unfortunate duty to inform you_  
 _that your delicately laid plans have been abruptly_  
 _altered. My father, upon hearing of your intentions,_  
 _with my brother, has made his differing opinion_  
 _quite clear. You will find Sherlock in the converted_  
 _watchtower on the outskirts of the capital. I suggest_  
 _you hurry._  
 _MH_

__

Harry’s pacing paused while he read, her navy eyes that perfectly matched his own shimmering faintly with concern. John’s body had straightened automatically at the scrutiny, his limbs stiffening to the point where the parchment gripped in his palm shook slightly from the tension. The pair remained silent for a moment, Harry waiting for her brother’s reaction while John’s own mind raced.

__

“This is my fault,” he suddenly declared, gaze still fixed on the elegant words the crown prince had written. Guilt coursed through him, fierce and overpowering. John knew Sherlock’s father was unlikely to approve of the match purely on principle – their kingdom was less accepting of their sort of relationship than John’s own. Yet he never expected such a fierce response from the king, particularly since Sherlock was his second son. It ought to have been Mycroft’s duty to marry as the king saw fit, leaving Sherlock with the obligation to simply marry well. The two countries had always been on friendly terms, and it wasn’t as though John was a horrendous choice, regardless of the fact that he would not inherit the throne. There ought not to have been such a strong objection from the king, despite the difference of opinions held in such a situation. John’s own father, though admittedly surprised, had given his blessing upon his son’s declaration of his intentions, helping encourage the young man to send out his letter in the first place. He’d assumed there would be challenges, but Sherlock forced into a tower as punishment had never occurred to him.

__

“Oh John, no.” Harry made to pull him into a hug, but he once more dodged out of her grasp, eyebrows furrowing as his frown deepened. Unsure of what to do, Harry hugged herself tightly, shaking her head at her brother. “This is not your fault, Johnny. You can’t help who you fall in love with, and you can’t stop people from reacting to it. If anyone could understand that, you know it would be me.”

__

John winced slightly and he sighed, the arm holding Mycroft’s letter finally lowering lifelessly to his side. “I know, Harry. God, I know. But Sherlock…I can’t let this happen. I can’t. I’ve got to get to him.”

__

“You’ll be caught. Imprisoned. You’re little good to him if you’re locked up as well.”

__

“I won’t just sit here doing nothing!” he yelled, his fear radiating out as fury. He gulped in a breath and quickly shook himself, setting a determined expression on his sister. “I need to see him, try to do something to help. You know Sherlock; he’s bored out of his scull in normal circumstances, just imagine him locked away alone for God knows how long. He’ll destroy himself in a day. I’ve got to at least try…imagine if it were Clara instead.”

__

Harry winced at the mention of her betrothed, and John knew she understood. Letting out another sigh, she shrugged and gestured toward the door. “Go on, then. You have my blessing. Just answer one thing for me first?” John waited, his silence acquiescence. “Is he worth it?”

__

Mouth set in a grim smile, John replied, “You know he is,” before turning to rush from the room, his mind already contemplating his plans.

__


	4. Chapter Three - Bored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Successfully tucked away in his tower with Greg, Sherlock attempts to fight off his inevitable boredom - and receives an unexpected yet longed for visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know - I KNOW. I'M SORRY. THIS DELAY WAS COMPLETELY OUT OF MY CONTROL. That's a lie, there wouldn't have been a delay if I hadn't stepped on my laptop and cracked the screen...regardless, I wrote this and the next chapter in the meantime, and both have been typed and are ripe for the editing. It also means that I've had a lot of time to think the chapters over, so hopefully their quality makes up for the waiting. Fair warning, this is the last of the major fluff for quite a while - the next chapter gets into the beginning of the angstier bits. Enjoy the precious while you still can.

  
“Lestrade! What have you done with my scull?!”  
  
Sherlock lay prone across the couch, one arm flouncing over the edge as he glared irritably up at the smooth lines of the newly polished ceiling. The king may not have approved of Sherlock’s choices or obstinate nature, but he had certainly decided to treat the young man as the prince that he still technically was. At the very least he had provided the two of them with adequate lodgings rather than stuffing them inside the long forgotten watchtower in the state it originally was found. In addition to leaving them fully stocked with seven years’ worth of food and water, he had surprisingly made an effort to give the tower a homey touch, adding a well worn couch and two armchairs to their living quarters and adorning the walls in a rather spectacularly original design. They’d even been allowed to bring a few select items of their own into the space, most specifically Sherlock’s violin and the human skull he was often known to chatter to endlessly. It was this second item that the man was demanding from his exceptionally put upon servant.  
  
“I haven’t done a damn thing to your ruddy scull, **Your Highness** ,” Greg shot back, the honorific added on purely to make a point. Once they’d been locked away, Sherlock insisted he drop the title altogether, claiming he was hardly much of a prince when the pair of them were locked away together like common and more than equal prisoners. Sherlock groaned dramatically and flopped an arm over his eyes, listening to Greg’s steady footsteps as he moved about the kitchen close by. Eventually the sound reentered the sitting room and Sherlock heard Greg settle into one of the armchairs, the soft chinking of china echoing over to him.  
  
Without removing his arm from over his eyes, Sherlock said, “Excellent, yes, thank you, Lestrade. I could do with a cuppa.”  
  
“Everything you need’s in the kitchen, mate,” Greg replied, taking a sip of his drink contentedly. Sherlock sighed heavily and allowed his arm to slide downward so that he might glare at his companion, who easily ignored him.  
  
“You are an awful servant,” he declared as he rose gracefully to his feet, vaulting carelessly across the low table beside him to snatch up his violin. Greg merely smiled grimly before Sherlock began to play, the notes echoing softly across the painted stone walls. The task managed to amuse the prince for an astounding quarter of an hour before he groaned theatrically and thrust it into the empty armchair.  
  
“My **God** , surely we have been locked in here for **years**!” he stormed as he paced before the fireplace, his curls in disarray as he swept a hand haphazardly through them. “Tell me we’ve already been in here for years, Lestrade.”  
  
Shaking his head, Greg replied, “It’s been less than a fortnight, Sherlock, you know that. Surely you’re not bored already?”  
  
“I’m **always** bored, Lestrade, always have been!” the prince declared, his eyes manic as they turned on Greg. “If I am trapped in here for one day longer with nothing to engage my mind, I will break myself out, even if it requires doing so one stone at a time.”  
  
Before Greg could reply, they heard a soft tap at the window behind Sherlock, hardly even noticeable above the prince’s ranting. Both men froze as they turned to study the spot, watching as a second small pebble came shooting upwards from the ground to ping against the thin layer of dirty glass.  
  
“What the bloody hell…” Muttering under his breath, Greg stood and crossed over to the window, attempting to see through the dust and grime covered pane. He quickly realized his futility and, after a few moments of grunting exertion, managed to yank it open. He carefully stuck his head through the opening to glance down at the ground, letting out an incredulous laugh as he turned to grin at his charge. “Sherlock, c’mere! Your knight in shining armour has come calling!”  
  
Without his permission, Sherlock felt his heart leap marginally as he pushed Greg aside, gaze darting about as he sought out the familiar blonde hair. “John? John!”  
  
“Sherlock?” John stumbled around the curving edge of the side of the tower, bright eyes searching frantically for the source of the voice. Despite the situation, an enormous grin spread across his face as he spotted Sherlock half leaning from the window above.  
  
“John. What are you doing here?” Worry crinkled at the edges of John’s eyes, noticeable even from Sherlock’s advanced height. He continued to frantically scan the other’s face, anxious both to take in the face of the man he hadn’t physically seen in nearly a year as well as seeking out any signs of harm.  
  
“What do you think I’m doing here?” John chuckled, but his tone turned serious almost instantly. “Are you alright? You’re not completely alone in there, are you?”  
  
“Nonsense – Lestrade insisted upon joining me. Something to do with being noble and making certain I don’t do anything stupid while I’m tucked away in this lunacy.”  
  
Greg managed to poke a head out from under Sherlock’s arm, shooting John a grin and a wave. “Prince John. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but, well, the situation isn’t exactly ideal.”  
  
Expression still grim, John nodded his agreement. “God, Sherlock, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Of all the things to happen, this…if I hadn’t proposed – “  
  
“Don’t you **dare** finish that sentence,” Sherlock snapped, panic racing through him at the thought of where John might be heading with that statement. As awful as being locked away for seven years was, the idea of losing John in the process caused a shot of frozen terror to leech through his veins with a strength that almost bordered on physical pain. He’d been put in this position due to his dedication to remain with John; he would not allow the same man to guilt himself out of their happiness purely to save him from boredom and seclusion. “That would be utterly counterproductive, as you would certainly have noticed if you were to **pay attention**. You are more than worth it, and if this doesn’t prove that to you…”  
  
“You’re aware I don’t deserve you, yeah?” John asked, half incredulous and half amused as a half grin lit up his face. “I realize we haven’t technically been engaged for that long, but have I mentioned yet that I love you?”  
  
Sherlock sucked in a breath, for once in his life completely speechless. He blinked down at the only man who had ever managed to push past his aloof exterior and force himself into the heart that Sherlock constantly denied. John, meanwhile, merely grinned back up at him, seemingly unaware of his ability to completely tip Sherlock’s axis off kilter. Eventually, after far too many minutes of stunned silence, Sherlock cleared his throat and stared down into the expectantly waiting blue eyes. “John…I…my feelings…”  
  
John chuckled softly, but his tone conveyed the good nature of the gesture. “I know, Sherlock,” he said quietly, hardly loud enough to be heard from the other prince’s advanced height. “The feeling’s mutual.”  
  
“Dear God, I don’t deserve you,” Sherlock eventually huffed out, shaking his head seriously at the grinning John. “Honestly, how you manage to put up with my madness is beyond comprehension. You are a pure conductor of light, simply put.”  
  
John barked out an incredulous laugh, but his face nearly radiated light from the unexpected and not nearly often enough bestowed compliment. “Eloquent as always,” he commented before his eyes widened, one hand reaching behind him into the satchel draped across his chest. “Oh, I nearly forgot! I’ve brought you something…not much, unfortunately, but given all this, I figured something’s better than nothing…have you got anything to toss down so that you can haul it up?”  
  
Darting his head back inside, Sherlock frantically rushed about the small sitting room, searching for a length of rope that might be long enough to do the job. As he looked, Greg strolled from his bedroom, watching the prince’s hurried movement with an expression of amused concern. Soon Sherlock spotted him and snapped out a quick, “Rope, Lestrade, we need rope!” before continuing his search.  
  
“What do you need a bit of rope for, then?” he asked as he began digging through a desk drawer. “There’s no way you’re fitting out that window, if that’s your intention.”  
  
“Nonsense, Lestrade, don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock replied as he let out a cry of triumph at finding what he sought. He dashed back to the window and threw down one end without preamble, his long fingers clutching almost desperately to the other. He watched as John tied a large package to the proffered piece, giving it a quick tug once it was secured. With Greg’s help, Sherlock hauled the gift up to the small window ledge, instantly snatching it up and ripping open the simple brown wrapping. Inside sat a neat pile of parchment, each carefully detailed with notes and drawings of what appeared to be numerous old mysteries. Sherlock thumbed through the pile, his jaw going stiff as he fought down another rush of feelings.  
  
“The captain of the guard and I are mates, so I was able to get him to make me copies of some old unsolved cases they had floating around,” John called, bringing Sherlock’s curly head back to the open ledge. “I know how you’re always pestering your own force, trying to get in and solve theirs for them, so I thought…well, you might like – “  
  
“They’re perfect,” Sherlock called, unable to halt the slight catch in his throat. “ **You** are perfect. I…thank you.”  
  
John flushed a bit at the thanks, but nodded. “Of course. I can bring you more next time. Can’t imagine that would keep you busy for long.”  
  
Sherlock’s brows furrowed slightly as he thought over his betrothed’s words. “John, that may not be wise. The king is having the tower watched nearly constantly – how you managed to stay about undetected this long must certainly be a result of a lax of effort on their part which will end in the idiots’ quick execution. You cannot return again; the risk is far too high and the gains not worth the effort.”  
  
“I refuse to let you stay up there completely unoccupied,” John shot back, determination set in his jaw. “We can’t let him completely cut us off.”  
  
“Letters,” Sherlock abruptly replied. “We’ll do as we’ve always done and write. I’ve plenty of supplies in here – have someone you trust procure you a carrier pigeon to the task. It’s the best we can manage for now.” Suddenly the far off laughter of some unseen source interrupted them, causing Sherlock to nearly fall from the window as he leaned out further to search for its source. “John! They’re coming! **Go!** ”  
  
John nodded swiftly before raising a hand in farewell and darting off. Sherlock watched until the sturdy figure vanished safely into the dense surrounding woods, letting out a swift sigh before turning back indoors and closing the window with a soft thump.  



	5. Chapter Four - Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To keep in touch over the seven long years spent in the tower, Sherlock and John exchange letters. Through them, John expresses his thoughts and fears concerning what is happening outside Sherlock's prison as the real world becomes increasingly more dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably involves a tiny bit of explanation. Since it's John's chapter, all of the letters will be written from John to Sherlock. Because of this, I tried to only do a very slim amount of editing - I wanted it to be natural, like an actual person writing a letter to another, and that usually doesn't involve going over what you've written three or four times to make it into a masterpiece. As you will hopefully be able to tell, each letter progresses through the seven year timeline (let me know if the progression isn't clear!). I brought in a bit more of what's canon to the series in this chapter, which was admittedly quite fun. Also, I warned you in the last chapter that the angst was coming...guess what you get to look forward to at the end of this...

  
Dear Sherlock,  
  
You’ve been stuck in that damned tower now for close to a year and I still haven’t figured a way out of this mess. I feel bloody awful about it all, and I know you’d likely scoff at me with that frustratingly attractive smirk of yours for saying so, but I feel like this whole thing is my fault. You’re not here to strop at me about it, though, so I’ve got all the opportunity in the world to keep on in feeling guilty all I like. I’d much rather have you here safe and complaining to me about how much of an idiot I am for thinking so, obviously, but I’m attempting to look on the bright side, as much as I can in all this. You always do enjoy calling me your conductor of light, after all – I suppose that would make me the more optimist and hopeful of our pair. Guess I’m just living up to the part.  


Speaking of fathers, mine just left to pay the king of our neighbouring country to the north a visit. We’ve been having some problems with border disputes – the normal things, as you probably have heard even locked away as you are. He thought we’d taken care of the whole business a few months ago when that war Anderson started fizzled out into nothing more than a childhood bickering match, but obviously not. I’m hoping that this time round we can avoid any more actual warfare, but from his last correspondence with me, it didn’t sound very promising.

Harry’s been married to Clara now for a little over a month, thank God. There’s nothing quite as mad as trying to deal with an elder sister that has a drinking problem she’s keeping from our father while also preparing for her royal wedding. Promise me, Sherlock, that when we do wed, it is no more than absolutely those required to attend and as simple as humanly possible. I’m not sure I could deal with all the pomp and circumstance Harry was forced to put up with during hers.

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was forced into coming to the wedding, and he managed to steal me aside for one of those lovely little chats of his. Apparently he’s been trying to figure a way out for you as well – and stop scowling this instant, Sherlock, despite all your bloody claims otherwise, the man cares for you even if he does have a shit way of showing it sometimes. I think at least part of our confrontation was a test of sorts, though, a way to check and see if I’m really dedicated to the cause of rescuing your arse. Don’t worry, I’m fairly certain I passed his little test. And no, I did not tell him to bugger off and mind his own business; he’s your brother, he has every right to stick that fat little nose of his into your life, particularly since it’s out of concern for you.

God, I miss you. How’s it possible to miss someone so much when you’ve hardly spent that much time with them in real life? It’s true, though – I miss what we haven’t had the chance to have yet. I will get you out of there, Sherlock, alive and before these seven years are up. I have to, for your sake and mine.

Happy birthday, love. Be civil to Greg – remember, whatever he does is out of concern for you.

Your John

~~~

Dear Sherlock,

This can’t have actually gone on for another year. I refuse to believe that another year has passed without me doing a bloody thing about it. God, this is utterly ridiculous. I can see where you picked up that stubborn nature of yours – your father, if it’s possible, is even worse. I’ve tried to get my father to visit yours and try to fix this, but he’s been too busy with Anderson and sorting out that mess. I even went down to your kingdom to see if I could sort it out myself, but I wasn’t even been allowed past the city gate. Apparently the second son of a smaller neighbouring kingdom who is attempting to (to use your delightful father’s words) ‘seduce the foolish youngest prince into a farce of a liaison that will lead to utter ruin’ isn’t to be taken seriously.

You’ve no idea how frustrating this all is…well, actually, seeing as it’s you, you’ve most likely deduced it from the strokes of my pen or the force of its tip on the parchment. I hate being so worthless, feeling like I could **do** something if only given the chance. I’ve never wanted to be king, or even crown prince, but now I feel as though I’d do anything to take the post just so I could be taken for some worth for once in my life. I’m sure the thought will baffle you – I know you’ve never wanted to rule, and heaven forbid anyone ignore **you**. But take it from someone ordinary who’s spent his whole life along the sidelines; when it’s something really important, it’s bloody awful.

In other depressing news, the war with King Anderson continues. Thankfully for us, his land isn’t much larger than ours, so at least we’re on decent standings. We’re at a bit of a standstill, though, and I have a feeling Father will call me out to the borders soon to help out. Yes, I promise to be careful. No, I won’t do anything stupid. No, I can’t guarantee I won’t go and do something supposedly noble and get myself injured. You know me, Sherlock, I’m not one to stand by idly when I know there’s something I can do. At least when I’m fighting, I can feel like I’m getting **something** accomplished.

I’ll still write when I’m off, but it’ll take longer for my letters to arrive. I miss you so damn much, it’s like a physical pain I’ve got with me every moment I take a breath. Stay strong, love. I will get you out, I promise.

Much love on your birthday, your John

~~~

Dear Sherlock,

Well, technically I didn’t break any of my promises to you. I was careful, far more careful than I ever was before we first started writing. What I did wasn’t stupid, at least not in regard to doing my duty as a soldier. And I’ve been told it was very noble, even when it left me in a less than perfect state.

It’s been far too long since I last wrote, and I know you won’t admit it, but I’m sure you’ve been driving Greg crazy from your worrying. You can stop it now – Greg definitely does not deserve to be on the receiving end of too much of **that** – because your fears have been proven true. Yes, I was hurt. A spear to the shoulder, thankfully a fairly clean stroke, but a pretty bad one. It nearly nicked my heart, but obviously I’m made of strong enough stuff to survive it. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t look quite as handsome as you once claimed me to be – spear wounds are nasty business, and I’ll wear the scar the rest of my days. Stop right this moment and **breathe** , Sherlock. I am fine. A bit worse for wear, but **fine**.

I’ll have plenty of time to write to you now, though, seeing as I’m laid up for a few weeks at least. I wish you were here to help care for me, as much care as I suspect you could give, but at least I have these notes. Plus, I can work more on figuring a way out of this now that I’m forced to spend my time sitting about healing. Please don’t worry, love. I’m as well as I can be. I’m more concerned about you, trapped in there for close to four years now. I’ll keep trying, Sherlock, you know that. Not even a bloody stupid thing as this could stop me.

Your John

~~~

Sherlock,

God, I don’t even know if you’re still alive to get this. Despite everything, here I am hoping that you’re far enough away to be safe, that that bastard Anderson will have forgotten about you locked away…please don’t be dead, Sherlock. Do me this one favour and don’t be dead.

You might not even know what’s happening. That tower’s far enough away from the capital that you could be perfectly safe and clueless of the hell the rest of the world’s going through. I can only hope that this is the case, because the chance that you might be in danger while I am forced to do nothing is more than I can take. Jesus, this not knowing may be worse than the truth.

I’m not making any sense. My thoughts are so jumbled, I can’t focus on anything but what’s happening over there and whether you’re okay. All I ask is that you’re safe, Sherlock. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t. Keep Greg close and don’t do anything stupid. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.

John

~~~

Sherlock,

Mycroft lives. He’s here, in the capital. He…I can’t even write it. He thinks you’re gone, Sherlock. He doesn’t think anyone could have survived. He tried to get to the tower before he fled, but there just wasn’t enough time. He suspects it was inevitable that they’d strike there next.

The lack of hope is overwhelming. Everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by these awful expressions on everyone’s faces, of pity and sorrow and despair. But I can’t help myself from keeping on in my own. I’m a man who demands proof, Sherlock, you know that as well as any. Until I have proof that my hope is gone, I refuse to let it be extinguished. I love you. I will love you until the end of my days. The last words on my lips as I lay old and weathered and dying will always be your name and exclamations of my love. The world around me can force me to do its will all it pleases, but I will never stop hoping and loving you.

Please survive this, my love. Please live. If anyone can, it’s you. I will always be waiting.

John  



End file.
